


Forgotten the Real Thing

by Square_Orange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Darklock, Hallucinations, John's pining gets out of hand, Mind Palace, Paranoia, Sexual Content, Sherlock has amnesia and it isn't pretty, memory distortion, not your usual dark!lock fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Square_Orange/pseuds/Square_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loses touch with both reality and his own memories, so he creates his own from scratch- the perfect world, but one he doesn't want. Sherlock's faked death goes horribly wrong. How can Sherlock and John help each other when neither remembers the other? Canon divergence from the end of s2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Look, please there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be... Dead." I could feel myself breaking up. Nope. Wasn't going to happen. "Would you do that, just for me, just..."

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could," I spat defiantly. I think I saw him smile then, and suddenly falter completely. He looked broken. A shade, not himself._

_"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." I heard him reign in his emotions with a sniff. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

"Stop it, stop _this_...." My words trailed off. My eyesight fogged and my breath hitched. I had a sudden desperate urge to run away, to destroy my sorrows in endless quantities of strong alcohol and try to forget all of this- his dusted grey skin, hands folded on his stomach, his chest still.

With a sting of horror, I realised I couldn’t wholly remember his face properly. He was obscured by some misted screen, within my grasp but ethereal and without substance. As the seconds moved on, Sherlock’s presence in my head dissipated, and he left me standing on the grass, feeling emptier than a dead man.

That night I allowed myself some tears. I sat in my chair, suddenly alone in the room that had once felt so alive. Even in Sherlock’s silent days, it had been warm there. Now, no matter how much fuel was put on the fire, I simply couldn’t escape the coldness and darkness that pressed in on all sides. My sadness stung my cheeks like acid rain.

* * *

 

“Morning, John.”

“Sleep well?”

“Quite.” He lumbered into the kitchen, picking up the newspaper as he passed the coffee table. “The wind was awful last night though, I couldn’t think straight for at least two hours.”

I set down my teacup and frowned at him questioningly.

“Have you been trying to solve cases in your sleep or something?”

“Of course not. It’s how I shut down. “ He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his blue silk dressing down, and began rummaging around for something to eat. He hadn’t eaten for at least two days straight, by my count. Therefore I couldn’t question his uncharacteristic behaviour.

Finding nothing of interest in the cupboards (the fridge was out of bounds- contaminated), the detective tossed some sliced bread onto a baking sheet and set the oven to preheat.

“What are you doing?” I sleepily lifted myself from my seat and went to observe his work more closely.

“I’m making toast," he answered matter-of-factly.

“That’s what the toaster is for.”

“The toaster’s boring.”

I yawned widely. It was too early to argue. I focussed instead on the newspaper in his pocket.

“Sherlock, that paper’s from last week.”

“Ah. Really?” He stopped everything momentarily to snatch it from his robe, and flung it over his shoulder like a bride throws a bouquet. I watched it as it smacked into the opposite press and sank sadly to the floor.

“Right... Pour me some more tea if you’re making it, will you?” I slumped back into my chair. He soon arrived over with the scalding liquid in one of Mrs Hudson’s gaudy teapots and refilled my cup.

“To your liking?”

I gave him a thumbs up and he walked back to the kitchen to tidy up.

When I brought the cup to my lips it was empty. The dregs from my last fill seemed to frown at me.

“Sherlock, you haven’t-”

Ah. Right. Not good.

There was nobody in the house but me, of course. The newspaper lay dejected on the coffee table by my laptop and unpaid bills. There was no washing up of any baking tray to be done.

I sank backwards and yawned again. It really was too early for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This here is a link to the companion playlist for this fic, please check it out! I'll be adding a new song for each chapter posted.
> 
> http://8tracks.com/square-orange/forgotten-the-real-thing


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has a case for John.

“We’ve got a double murder on our hands, John. We need your help, if you’re willing.”

Lestrade stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly between feet. Was he uncertain of me now? Did he think I was unstable just because my friend died?

Well, he was probably right.

Sherlock looked out from the kitchen and took in the DI’s appearance.

“Divorce is going through the final stages, I see. Hasn’t slept properly in weeks. Hasn’t seen the kids since last Wednesday.” I glanced in his direction and shook my head at his lack of tact.

Greg turned from me to the direction I faced, and his brow creased ever so slightly.

“Will you come?”

I scrubbed my face in my palm. “Let me get some things, I’ll be down in a minute.”

I waited until I heard the door shut to regard Sherlock properly. “Why are you here?”

His eyes seemed to twinkle, and I caught that twitch of his lips that betrayed him. “You want me to be here. Does it matter?”

“I have a feeling it does, yeah.” I picked up my coat with heavy hands, and checked my pocket for my phone. “Are you a ghost?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid John, ghosts don’t exist.”

“Then how do I explain you?” I made for the stairs, and he followed with his hands in his pockets. Somehow he was wearing that massive coat again.

“You know, I’m not sure."

I stopped and turned to him.  "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

His eyes narrowed. "You should stop talking before you hurt yourself."

"Charming. Let's go"

It wasn't a particularly complicated case; I could have figured it out myself if I'm honest. But it was nice to hear him blabber on about gravel and condensation and God knows what else. It didn't even last ten minutes, but it was worth the drive to see my friend in his element.

Of course, having to relay it to the others was awkward in the extreme. They looked at me like I had proclaimed myself to be the second coming of Christ.

The Met were clearing out after Sherlock had pointed out that, “ _Obviously the sister killed her with her nail file_ ,” when Lestrade picked a cigarette and lighter from his pocket and scrutinised the view. An ordinary house, very similar to the one which he used to call home. A reminder of his failures. Sherlock made for him as I flagged down a cab, and I would have missed it had I not heard Greg's heavy sigh. Sherlock's hand extended to rub the Inspector's shoulder, sympathy written in his features for all to see.

Well, by all, I mean me.

Lestrade didn't notice the pressure through his coat. We left him standing forlorn at the roadside, because it wasn't me he needed now. He needed somebody unbroken. He needed an ambiguous man in a long coat and tight suit.

Sherlock stared out the cab window for the entire journey and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is up on ff.net. I've been working on it since May and I'm still only about half way through it, and updates after chapter 7 will be slow to come. I hope you will be patient with me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock notices something about himself.

I'm not mad. It's just that the world is spinning out of control, while I'm standing still, waiting for it all to start making sense again.

It's been nine months since the world made sense. And people have begun to notice that I can't keep up with the spinning any more.

Standing still means I can stare Sherlock in the face and not be afraid that I'll see blood and bruising. Instead, he smiles. He makes me laugh. He reminds me of the good times we had, that we are still having, really. Because Sherlock never left. He simply stood still when I did.

His presence was revealed about seven months after the, um, Fall. Little moments spent wondering about domesticity and the fruit of different plants and the nature of bees. Silly things. He makes tea, still. I try hard to drink it. But the emptiness of it all is what burns my tongue when the fantasy fades.

I try not to get angry. I don't want to blame him for this. How could this be his fault anyway? This is my mind, after all, not Sherlock's cerebral play dough. However, I know that I'm not insane. So with whom does the blame lie?

I like to think it's Mycroft. Sherlock gets a kick out of that. Any chance to diss the man and he's riding a whirlwind of sarcasm and insults.

But Mycroft didn't push my best friend off the roof of St Bart's, so to my dismay, I fall back on blaming Sherlock. Cursing him and the day we met, yelling in his face that he was a bastard and a stain on humanity.

He looks at the ground and says sorry. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder and sets me down in my chair, as he picks up his violin and pulls a few faded notes from the strings. The tunes are like the final resonance of echoes. I don't think I ever hear them as they should be. The songs are tired now.

And the next day he is walking over the coffee table and ranting about cases and experiments and stupidity, and suddenly my world seems to have started moving again, and everything is perfect. Sherlock is here, and nothing could be better. And then he makes tea, and the cycle starts again. I realise that my world does not extend out the doors of 221B. I have not found my place in the intricate twirling dance of the rest of mankind. I'm the awkward kid at a school disco who sticks to the wall, and Sherlock is the one who sits across the room. We exchange pained glances every now and then.

Just last week, he drew attention to it.

"This isn't me."

"Hm?"

He stood by the window, gazing out at the urban landscape that had embedded itself into his very soul.

"I'm not like this. You've got me wrong."

I closed the book I was trying to read.

"You're Sherlock. You're exactly how I remember you."

"Your memory is flawed." He frowned at his watery reflection. "You made me better. You made me good."

"You are good."

"You're wrong." He turned to face me, worry creeping over his brow. "This is wrong, John. You need to stop."

I got up to stand with him, pawing at the papers on my desk for support. Leg was at me again.

"Why? I don't want anything else."

"Exactly." His palm cupped my cheek and his eyes grew kinder. "You've made me into what you wanted all along. That isn't fair on either of us."

I closed my eyes and leaned into his comforting touch. "No, it's not fair. Nothing is fair anymore."

"It's come to this, John. You have to move on. I would not touch you so tenderly. You know that."

"Do I?"

"I am sure of it." His hand vanished, no trace of it ever having been there apart from the tingling of my skin. I looked into his face, and with a clench in my stomach I saw his expression change. Hard instead of soft; robotic and calculating. A shock to my system. I didn't know Sherlock anymore.

"This is what happens, John. To a mind stuck in stasis. Memories stagnate. Attachments to your own creations tighten. You have left the world, John Watson."

"At least I left it with you."

His eyes widened and he turned away. He hasn't mentioned it since.

* * *

 

The lights. The beeping. The other person in the room. I had woken up. How had I fallen asleep?

I heard a woman calling. Apparently my awakening was significant. I couldn't tell. The blur in my vision wouldn't go away. I blinked furiously to relieve myself from the lack of clarity.

A man came into view. The colours of his skin and the green he wore made him distinguishable from the ceiling and the lights. He was talking. Was he? Still unclear. Dopy. Drugs? Possibly. Asphyxiation? Possibly. Coma?

Coma.

Ah.

"Mr Holmes, can you hear me?"

Ah, finally an understandable pattern of vowels and consonants. Well, understable was not quite the word.

"Are you asking me?"

The nurse glanced over me, probably to somebody else in the room, frowning. He didn't want to hear that.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. You just woke up from a coma. It's good to see you."

"Holmes."

He nodded uncertainly. "Yes... Sherlock Holmes."

"That is... My name."

"... Yes."

It certainly sounded right, but...

"I see. Um... I think I may be suffering from memory loss."

He smiled at me. "Everything is going to be fine, Sherlock."

_Lies._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson finds a photo.

"I've got a date tonight. I think... I think this might be the one Sherlock, she's.. Aw, she's great. Really, really great."

Sherlock's tune slowed and quietened.

"What's her name?"

"Mary."

There was a tiny uplift to his lips and he turned away from me, the music heightening again.

"Good luck, then, my dear Watson."

* * *

 

Ella was in a better mood than I had known in all the days I had gone to her. Was it because she thought I was finally making progress again, or because she might soon see the back of me? One could never be sure with that woman.

"How are things going with Mary?"

An involuntary smile spread across my face at the mere thought of her. "Six months. She's marvelous, very supportive. We're doing great."

"That's wonderful to hear. In what ways is she supportive?"

"Oh well you know she..." My smile fell somewhat and I drew in a breath. "She's kind when I'm down, you know,  the usual stuff..."

Ella regarded me with a questioning gaze. "And how does she handle the bad days?"

I scratched the back of my neck. It had been bothering me for weeks.

"She- I mean, we don't really... She makes tea. And we watch telly. It's comforting."

"I see."

What did she expect? Mary didn't know about those days. Those were days spent shut in 221B wrapped in blankets, flinching at every outside noise and consuming terrible quantities of tea and often whiskey. I would listen to the distant melodies of happy days on a violin long since packed away, bask in the warmth of a body that rotted in a cemetery, allow a deep and hypnotising voice pull me into a fantasy that I never wanted to leave.

How could I let Mary access that part of me? Ella was stupid. Like the rest of the world. And, and- Ella didn't even know the extent of what I was going through.

True, I hadn't told her. But if I did, she would likely make it her mission to rid me of these dreams "for my own good".

"I'm doing fine."

With that I up and left.

_I am never coming back here again._

oOoOoOoOo

"Woo hoo!" A sharp rap on the door drew me from the kitchen where I was preparing breakfast. Mrs Hudson briskly came in and started shuffling through my things, tutting at the skull on the mantlepiece and reefing through papers on the coffee table. Some things never changed.

"John dear, I've canceled the newspaper subscription, you never collect them anymore. Oh! Look at the state of my couch, you've got coffee stains all over it, shame on you John Watson!"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson. Won't happen again."

Her hands stopped pulling all of a sudden. They glided over a sheet under a pile of others near my unused laptop and backed up to the couch with it gripped in her fingers.

"Oh never mind dear. It's been a hard few months, we all make mistakes..."

"Mrs Hudson?" I sat down beside her and pulled the photograph out of her frail hands.

There was me, standing proud in the office of Scotland Yard, Lestrade lounging at his desk with his arms folded. The foreground was blocked by the sharp features of a keen-looking man, mahogony curls abound, eyes piercing like a lightning strike. A test of a camera, perhaps. An unashamed selfie.

"Oh, Sherlock. I miss that boy every day. Even his horrible experiments. And the thumbs- who would miss body parts in the fridge?"

This- this was not Sherlock! Sherlock looked nothing like this! Sherlock was... Was...

_I've lost my mind._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shouldn't listen to the opinions of others...

The Diogenes Club was ripe with the stink of old money and expensive tobacco. Newspapers were rustling and ice clinked in glass tumblers that held liquid amber. Mycroft wasn't present. It was me, sitting quietly in my brother's private office away from the other strange old men. Fantastic.

The place is supposedly meant to inspire great thought and important opinion forming, but sitting in my overstuffed chair, I was struck only by blankness with fleeting streaks of incomprehensible colours. No wondrous inspiration, just frustration. The fire, slowly breaking down wood pieces to black splinters, danced and spun in the same sporadic manner as my tattered memory.

"Sherlock. I see you haven't touched your drink." Mycroft arrived at precisely a quarter past seven in the evening, rudely calling for my attention from across the room while he pocketed his phone. "I thought you liked brandy. The expensive stuff in particular." He strolled over and took the glass, sniffing its contents, and replacing it with an expression of scepticism.

"I spoke to Doctor Phillips this afternoon. She assured me that the tests showed your brain displaying no abnormalities."

I grunted in response. My focus was on a single reverberating thought, and I couldn't have distractions as I tried to make sense of it.

"Father bought me a goldfish when I was five years old."

Mycroft shot me a look with raised eyebrows and sat opposite me. "He did. He did indeed."

"I cared for it for months. Diligently. But then one day I... I took it out of its tank. I wanted to see how long it would take for it to die in the air." I trembled at the image. "Why did I watch it die, Mycroft?"

His face was unreadable. Perhaps that memory was painful for him too?

"Sherlock... Try to be open minded and remember that these things happened a very long time ago. Some things are perhaps best left unremembered."

"Do not leave me to pick through your ambiguity Mycroft, I've got enough of that in my own head already."

He tapped the side of his armchair and looked me over, eventually sighing in defeat.

"I have always believed you killed the fish because Father passed away that month. You were young, and your coping techniques were somewhat... Unconventional. "

"Father is dead?"

Mycroft nodded patiently. My hands crept under my chin and joined at a peak, apparently a reflex when my thoughts sprung to life and evaded my rationality. This was a game of chasing, and I now had a good idea of how horrible a game it would be.

_My father is dead. That... Hurts. How strange_.

* * *

 

 Donovan said that Sherlock was a freak.

Lestrade mentioned that Sherlock probably wouldn’t stand for me going out with Mary again, let alone meeting the guys in the pub.

Mrs Hudson gave out about the bullet holes in the wall.

Mary told me she had got the impression that He was “a bit of an ass.”

It just didn’t add up. Sherlock was... _Is_ perfect. He’s liveliness and excitement and calm and the tune in your head before you sleep. He is how time passes when you’re happy, and how sugar dissolves into your evening tea. Sherlock Holmes is the progression of my life. He’s wonderful. Isn’t he?

* * *

 Sherlock hovered behind me while I set the kettle to boil. I could hear him fidgeting with thumb tacks at the kitchen table, then brushing crumbs off the counter. Apparently it wasn’t a day for talking. The first thumps of boiling water began, and I turned to my friend with a deep breath.

“Remember that time when you said I had got you wrong?”

His eyes moved over me, but he stayed facing the cupboards while scratching at a food stain. He hummed a confirmation.

“Well I did didn’t I? You were right, I made you perfect, yes?”

“Why doubt yourself after all this time, John?” His brow had quirked upwards. “I thought you enjoyed this arrangement.”

“I do, believe me I do, but it’s starting to feel like I’ve tainted something, do you understand?”

The kettle was hissing violently when Sherlock grabbed my arm. “Oh perfection isn’t good enough, is that it? You want me to become the monster your friends describe me as? If that is what you want _I shall not disappoint you_.”

I thought his grip might shatter my bones with the pain screaming through my shoulder.

“Sherlock- Let go of me!”

He vanished. I held my arm as the throbbing died and shot my gaze over every inch of the room.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry John.”

And there he was by the door, looking at the floor like an ashamed child. It seemed like the moment had passed, and I relaxed, bringing my attention back to the cooker and taking the kettle off the heat.

“So... Mary. When are you seeing her again?”

“Tonight.”

He nodded with his lips pursed in thought. “You’re proposing to her.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I poured my tea and sighed. “Because I love her.”

I listened with pricked ears to his slow exhale.

“That’s a shame. Because she’s already married.”

I placed my mug patiently back down. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Well I’m afraid it’s true.”

“No, you don’t get to say things like that anymore! You are dead, okay, so this whole deduction thing is fake! You don’t even have a brain!” My fist found the tabletop, and uncleaned plates chinked with cutlery. He watched the movement of my hand with a blank face.

“I know I don’t. You deduced it yourself, John. You’re not an idiot. Well...” He smirked sarcastically. “Maybe you are.”

I put my face in my hand in hopeless bewilderment. “Why the hell are you still here?”

_And what happened to all the kindness you’ve been showing?_

“You need me. You can’t function without me. You’re not part of real life anymore, or did you forget that?” He giggled. “Also I’m here to make sure you don’t go off and marry some whore.”

I must have reached for him in a sudden burst of rage. The world went grey around me as my focus latched to the apparition before me. Yet with all my will to hit the man, I somehow missed my footing and was thrown backwards ungracefully. Heat swelled at the top of my head where it met the cupboard door handle, and suddenly my sight was only rings of searing light and blue and red dots. Sherlock’s blurred face appeared among all of that, and behind a wall of buzzing noise his voice echoed like a call across the Universe.

_“John, come on! That’s it, come with me. We can be together properly if you die now.”_

The darkness rolled in like a wave, forcing my conscience to drown in horrified delirium.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Mycroft's house.

My home, a grand and majestic piece of architecture and design, hummed with activity. It baffled Sherlock somewhat, which in and of itself was unnerving. I imagine the introduction of various pieces of medical equipment into the back lounge seemed rather of place, surrounded by the... Less than humble interiors of my home.

"Sir, our visitor has arrived. Shall we escort him inside?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted to the suited man standing in the dining room doorway. Curiosity was clear from how his brow creased and his lips pursed subtly.

"Thank you Stephen, please do so at once." I turned to my brother abruptly once my associate had left.

"This visitor is not to be disturbed, Sherlock. Do not let your presence become known to him. This is an exceedingly delicate matter, brother, and if you blindly interupt anything, you will face dire consequences. Understood?"

He nodded and munched loudly on the peas in his mouth to emphasise his sincerity.

I left him to his meal (I should not have been worried that he was actually eating, but nonetheless, there we have it) and walked briskly to greet my guest.

The paramedics were attempting to keep him awake, as I had expected. The bleeding had stopped, but the concussion was still causing problems. I overlooked his handling and care, and once the medics were satisfied, I took their place at the side of the sofa whereupon he had been deposited. His eyes were hooded when he shifted to look at me.

"Shit. What have have I done to deserve this?"

An expected response, I supposed.

"Long time no see, Doctor Watson. We have quite a lot to discuss."

"Nooooo we don't. I'm going. Right now, goodbye!" He made to swing his legs over to stand up, but lurched back from dizziness.

"I'm afraid you are in no condition to leave, my good man. Now," I routed through an inner pocket for my phone and brought up a video, and presented it. "This has caught my attention. There are seventy three surveillance videos similar to this." His face contorted in disgust at what I was showing him. "I am... _concerned_ to say the least." John's voice echoed slightly through the speakers, eerie in the extreme.

_"That was wonderful; Bach?_

_"Seriously? Impressive._

_"Yeah, go on. I'm feeling adventurous._

_"Uh, I couldn't agree more._

_"Are you sure? Lestrade seems to know what he's doing._

_" Wow. Okay, forget I said anything. I mean.... Whoa._

_"Are you making me tea or not?_

_"He- Hello?_

_"Damn it..."_

John's expression spoke of both fascination and horror.

"Why the _hell_ do you have this? On your _phone_ , Jesus Christ..."

I pocketed the device without taking an eye off his face. "To prove to you that you need my help. Now tell me if you will, is it simply insanity, or is it drugs? I did not take the liberty of having you tested for questionable substances, as I assumed you would not take kindly to such an intrusion."

"Damn _right_ I wouldn't; and I don't need your help Mycroft, I'm not a child. I can handle this on my own."

"It is not wise to face grief alone."

He positively snarled.

"What would you know? You can't possibly be grieving, considering you _caused his death in the first place_! You have no right to tell me how I should feel, because you've royally fucked everything up already, and I don't need you screwing with my head as well!"

Well. That was unpleasant.

"John-"

"Piss off." With that, he rolled over to face the back of the couch, and I took that as my cue to leave.

"I am sorry, John."

* * *

 

'It's time to wake up, John. Time to wake uuuuup!"

My eyelids gradually parted as I attempted to get used to the flickering yellow light of the fire. Only a couple of hours sleep, then. Brilliant.  

"Hello stranger. Good sleep?"

Sherlock was perched at the end of the couch, staring at me with wide, curious eyes and an open-mouthed grin. I was instantly reminded of a vulture. His expression- he looked like he wanted to eat me alive.

I never screamed so loud in my life.

* * *

 

I decided that Mycroft's house at night was unpleasant. The building in daylight was bad enough, but add darkness and quiet into the equation and it develops this ominous atmosphere. Very unscientific, but unquestionably true.

I was awoken by a scream, muffled by the distance between myself and its owner. I threw my arm over my eyes before turning on the lamp by my bed. No matter how "delicate" this situation with the stranger was, I could hardly have him screaming the house down.

As I drew closer to the room in which our visitor resided, the scream was accompanied with whimpers and pained moans. I strained my ears to make out what he was so frightened of- perhaps an intruder? I pressed my ear to the thick oaken door and held my breath at what I came across.

"You did this to me! How could you, how could you just change like that? You wanted me to die, how could I _not_ be upset? I am _terrified_ of you! No- nononono stop it, STOP IT!"

The words morphed into sobs, and any words that followed were unclear.

_He has put his head in his hands or blanket, sign of frustration and/or distress. Subject requires emotional support/stability/comfort. Behaviour towards strangers in such circumstances include awkward rubbing on the back, a grasp of the shoulder, a meaningless acknowledgement of sympathy._

I knocked before entering, and slowly opened the door. He appeared absolutely focused on not looking anywhere other than the wool blanket he had thrown over himself as a makeshift bed. From the doorway I could only get a glimpse of his short ashen hair and the way he leaned forward in apparent agony.

"Sorry, are you alright? You're making a bit of a racket is all, you woke me up-"

"Stay away from me!"  His gaze had snapped sideways in my direction the moment I opened my mouth, and suddenly he was standing, backing away to the fireplace and reaching for the poker.

"You changed again, don't think you can fool me!"

"I don't understa-"

He brandished the poker with both hands, searching for purchase on the twisted base, eyes wide and filling with tears. "I said STAY AWAY! YOU AREN'T MY SHERLOCK!"

I faltered, stepping back the way I came before he tried anything. I almost ran back to my room.

_Not my Sherlock._

_Not. My. Sherlock._

_My Sherlock._

_“My.” Possessive pronoun. This man knows me. Yet he fears me? Trauma. This man and I have history. I must have done something terrible to elicit such an emotional response, but what?_

_This man was important. This man_ is _important. I.... Have an overwhelming desire to see him smiling, not crying._

_Mycroft is keeping too much in the dark._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is here, so everything will be okay. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself for a very weird and uncomfortable chapter.

“John? John, open the door!”

A series of frantic knocks rattled through 221B, startling me awake. I found myself sprawled on the couch, wearing fresh clothes and smelling like disinfectant.

_Mycroft._

“John, please, it’s been days!” That voice was familiar… A woman’s.

“Mary?”

“John! Are you alright?!”

I groaned from the stiffness in my neck and shoulders and wobbled to the door, before fumbling drunkenly with the lock. Mary practically ran me over in her excitement, grabbing me by the shoulders and crushing herself against my chest without warning.

“You haven’t called since Wednesday; I was so scared something had happened! What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I struggled out of her death grip and brushed my hand across her shoulder affectionately. “You know me. No need to worry.”

Mary’s fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. “I do know you. And I most definitely do need to worry.”

_You have no idea._

We stood watching each other for a moment, each with unspoken thoughts threatening to burst forward.

_"That's a shame. Because she's already married."_

Sherlock stood by the canvas of the skull with his hands clasped behind him, and seemed to be searching for some hidden meaning in the painting until he slowly turned his head in my direction. The small smile that graced his lips let loose an eruption of questions in my head.

_Are you really married already?_

_Who is he?_

_What else are you not telling me?_

_Did you ever love me or was it all fake?_

_Is everything important to me a lie?_

“Mary… Are you…?”

_No._ I shook my head to rid myself of the paranoia and shot a poison look in my late flatmate’s direction. “Are you hungry? I can order take away from the Indian down the road.”

Her fingertips found my cheek and stroked lightly. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

Despite my attempts, my eyes zoomed in on the little details- Just the way Sherlock used to think. Small, seemingly insignificant things juxtaposed white against a black background, scratching needles against the screen of my mind. _"Look at this, John! It's all so obvious if you'd only look!"_

_She’s got a tan line on her ring finger. She keeps her phone on the inside pocket of her coat. She doesn’t have a permanent job but she could afford to travel to China over the summer._

_...Jesus Christ_.

My legs started to give underneath me and I reached forward with a jerk. Mary caught me by the elbows and helped me onto the couch with terror in her eyes.

"Oh sweetheart, your leg again... This is awful..."

Her hands ran across the fabric of my jeans, coaxing away the twinge of pain that had settled there. My gut twisted at the thought of somebody else receiving such a loving touch by the same woman. When she leaned in for a kiss my reciprocation was mechanical, instinct at this stage. My mind separated from my transport, unable to stop thinking about how wrong this all was but absolutely unable to stop doing it.

Sherlock beamed, positively delighted by my dilemma.

* * *

Obviously I didn't need to be in the most attentive state to be good in bed. That was obvious from the way Mary gasped and keened above me and yup. It felt bloody incredible. Breath came in sporadic bursts and that made it very difficult to focus on betrayal and lies and so forth. I mean good _Lord_ her _tits_ -

"First you lose your sanity, and then your virtue, eh?"

My groan of indignation apparently came off as a lustful one, because the downward thrusts sped up with force. I bit my lip against the protests that threatened to erupt, and instead I gathered the strength to swing my fist onto the part of the mattress where Sherlock had just been.

"Why do you let her top when she's so inconsiderate of your stimulation? I mean look at her. She's just using your prick like you're a prostitute getting her off!" I saw him shrug in disbelief with his back on the wall by my side of the bed.

"She's taking you for granted. It's disgusting. I never took you for granted!"

Mary had her eyes clamped shut through the gasping buzz before she toppled over the edge. Her jaw tightened and released, tightened, released, and damn it but I blinked. Of course I had to fucking blink.

"Uh, John, shit-" The deep moans were the first thing, then the sweat-covered dark curls and the chiseled facial bone structure.

_Fuck fuckity fuck fucking fuck._

"John you should- uh- show her that you're not- Christ!- not to be taken for granted- fucking hell!"

Stardust eyes held my focus with a torturing grip as Sherlock played his final card.

" _Fuck me already ,Doctor Watson_."

I disregarded Mary's surprised yelp as I flipped her ungracefully onto her back and pulled her hands to the headboard. Sherlock's mess of hair was smothered into the pillows, and the man smiled wickedly as I let my rage combust in violent movements. Maybe Mary was annoyed at the change in dynamic. I found that as long as I was taking out my fury on my flatmate, I didn't care.

Two weeks later I found myself without a girlfriend once again.

* * *

“Doctor John H. Watson.”

The final page of my personal notebook detailed my meeting with some ex-army doctor who was looking for accommodation in central London. There had been a case involving serial suicides, a chase over rooftops, a decision over pills (had I really been that stupid?), and this uncommonly courageous man had shot the criminal to save me from myself. He moved in with me that very night.

There no other information on him. Obviously I had not seen any point in writing in every last detail like I usually would have, because the entree was vague in its description. That could mean two things:

1: I did not find him interesting enough to describe; he was simply going to be paying half of the rent.

2: I found him intriguing and thought that exposure would imprint all information into my mind.

Both had their faults. It was rare that I wouldn’t include a description, and since when did I find another human being intriguing? The unanswered questions pestered me at every moment I spent without a distraction and I found myself falling inwards, absorbed in my thoughts and oblivious to anything happening outside myself.

_A thick chain winds a path in front of me and I follow without hesitation. I have been here before, I realise. The brightest of imagined sunlight welcomes me back, and I notice that I am smiling. The chain links to another, and it branches off in thousands of directions. I continue to grasp the original until it joins a hook in a white stone wall. The wall climbs higher than I can see, but I spot countless windows. There is a black door with 221b marked in brass that swings open on the right to allow me entrance, and I step through it with curiosity._

_The rooms inside were nearly bare, housing only ashes and ruined books. I pick up a torn photograph from the floor and above it floats “Mrs Huds…”_

_It is desolate. The sunlight is gone. I recognise that I have no idea where exactly I have found myself, and I back out of this ethereal palace with a haste I did not know I could achieve. I bypass the chains, I sneer at the greying sun, and unconscious of time, I find myself in the dark with a splitting headache and a thunderous echo of my name._

_“Sher… Sherlo….. Sherlock!”_

One of the servants shook me by the shoulders, and I sputtered back. I was on my back, grabbing lungfuls of air as if I had been shoved underwater.

“Sir, you’re awake! Thank goodness; I shall have someone inform your brother immediately.” Another, _quieter_ man knelt beside me as the other shot up and out of the room.

Mycroft had given me a look at concern as if he knew what had happened to me. He questioned me thoroughly and much to my displeasure. The next morning when I went searching for my later notebooks they were nowhere to be found.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No journals, but a manila folder at least.

The night was a constant battle with sleep, as I desperately attempted to keep upright and finish paperwork. Holding this position in the government isn't remotely recreational, and sleep deprivation is no stranger to me. However, that night no measure of coffee could have helped to rid me of my weariness.  

I vaguely processed the sound of my office door creaking open and my brother stepping tentatively inside to hover by the fire. I peered more closely, and caught the tell-tale symptoms of a nightmare is his shadowed eyes.

"Sherlock? Are you not well?"

He shook his head without taking his eyes from the stuttering flames. "I'm tired and my leg hurts. My brain feels like it's crashing inwards. I can't sleep."

I set down my fountain pen and moved to stand by his side. "The weather is heavy out tonight. A broken bone will always ache with that, and I'm afraid you'll have to learn to live with it." With a gentle nudge against his arm he turned a little more towards me, but he stayed transfixed by the amber glow.

"Do you have sleeping pills I can take?"

"None that I can give you, no. But let me look at you. You're pale as death."

His ashen skin absorbed the orange of the fire and his eyes glistened, dark and fatigued with rings that looked like caked soot. He swallowed, his throat undulating like a bony wave over weak muscle. “There are snippets of memories in my sleep. Links that join to nothing. What I’ve seen… I need to make sense of it all. I don’t want to see these things and not know the reasons for everything I seem to have done.” Those pained orbs switched to my face. “You know everything about me. Tell me who I am.”

“You are Sherlock Holmes, and my brother,” I answered easily.

“ _What else?_ ”

“Your are a consulting detective and a genius.”

“WHAT ELSE?”

I visibly jumped at his anguished outburst and removed myself from his personal space for fear that he would strike out. His entire body shook with volcanic rage and his inability to see through the amnesia-induced fog. He subconsciously flexed his fingers stiffly and locked his jaw forwards, the fire now burning in his eyes.

“You took my diaries. I demand that they be given back.”

“For your own good, and the good of others, I cannot give them to you.”

His entire face scrunched as if he were in physical pain. “My world is in shreds because this amnesia isn’t subsiding! Give me just _one damned thing_ for the sake of my sanity!”

“No. Lives are at stake.” I gestured to the chair. “Now sit and collect yourself.”

“The diaries!”

" _Sherlock Holmes, sit down_!"

" _Make me!_ "

A war waged between our gazes, both looming and persistent. Sherlock assessed me with a scowl, when a piercing _click_ resonated through the room.

" _Sir, Mr Brecht is on secure line two; whenever you're ready._ "

Our attention was fleetingly drawn to Anthea’s voice coming through the receiver on my desk- whereupon a selection of manila folders lay overlapping. My breath hitched minutely when I remembered that John’s most recent files were among them. I cursed internally at myself- Sherlock would notice the movement.

He watched me intensly and gradually, a virulent, close-mouthed smile that didn’t reach his eyes grew across his lips. He nodded to himself, and I kept my gaze trained on his back as he retreated from the office with his shoulders hunched.

* * *

Mycroft had been good to me. But I couldn’t stay dependent on him forever, particularly if he was going to treat me like a child and hide the world from me, and me from it.

I stayed awake for the rest of the night with the door to my bedroom ajar, so that I could listen for my brother’s footsteps. Around half past three, his distinct plodding reached my ears along with a weary sigh, and disappeared to the other side of the house.

Getting into the office was hilariously simple. Inside my box of belongings was a pouch of steel lock picks and pins. It fit into the pocket of my dressing gown with ease.

Once inside the office I didn't dare to touch any light switches or go near his computer. I have learned over the past months that my brother is essentially part of the electrical network in this house. He may as well have a USB port in his brain. I try to avoid technology here to the best of my ability.

By the light of a candelabra from the dining room, I was able to find the folder in a hidden compartment at the back of his smaller writing desk. For a man who had a tendency to meticulously sort his documents, the surface of that desk appeared utterly unkept. A poor diversion for Mycroft's standards.

_Whatever this contains cannot be of national importance if finding it was this simple. Therefore reading whatever is in here won't get me into any particular trouble... Then again, why attempt to hide it at all? Mycroft cannot be so naïve as the think I would let this matter rest with only a few stern words and a slap on the back of the hand._

_Oh, whatever. I need to know_.

The folder was thick with papers and photographs, and when opened, a memory stick dropped out and bounced on the carpet _._ The whole lot came with me back to my room, where I sat on my bed and set up to read. Safely tucked under my quilt, I reopened the manila and took a proper look in good light.

_"You're not my Sherlock!"_

I trailed a finger across the smooth surface of the main photo, confounded.

"Hello again, _John Watson_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. The Empty Hearse was fab. 
> 
> When the next chapter is posted I'll put up a link to a playlist I'm compiling that corresponds with each chapter. Just so's you know.
> 
> Thanks for reading :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another visit and another test.

"You never quite get used to it, do you? The smell of blood..."

Sherlock's skeletal fingers slid through a spattering of deep red on his armrest and brought it to eye level to inspect it. He sniffed it as if it was an expensive wine, savouring every minute factor of its bouquet.

He didn't need to bring it close to take it in. The stench was everywhere, permeating every stitch of clothing and upholstery, seeping under doors. Scarlet and copper assaulted my senses.

The blood had half-dried, sticky in the carpet. It was in my hair, on my clothes, on my hands; it covered every wall in violent splatters and artistic brush strokes. And there in the middle of it all were two versions of the same man, the same glorious and _horrific_ man, one seated calmly in his old chair and the other face down in a pool of his own life essence.

I was pulled back and forth between these two apparitions, careful not to convey my terror lest the one sitting down took it as an opportunity to taunt me further. He smiled innocently at me, a sweet sideways upturn of his lips, the skin beside his eyes crinkling.

“He wanted to see you again, John. Understandable. I hear it gets quite lonely in the afterlife.”A sudden movement pulled my attention to the floor. A twitch- and another-

The corpse’s hand cracked and balled into a fist. He slowly and awkwardly began to get to his feet. The bones in his neck creaked as his head settled into the correct position, his eyes fluttered open, and I was stumbling across the room to my desk where my gun was- _please let my gun be there_ -

The whites of his eyes were inked with black veins, his cheeks hollowed and rotting, those once-perfect cupid-bow lips a dull purple and chapped beyond repair. Bruises engulfed the right side of his face, framed by a stream of still-pumping blood. He smiled when he saw me, and extended his loose hand, grey fingers stretching uncoordinately to lessen the space between us.

“You should go with him. That way neither of you will be lonely…”

The thunderous noise of a gunshot and a shattering of glass, and I found myself alone in our dusty, decrepit flat. The browning was aimed at my splintered reflection, in what remained of the mirror above the mantelpiece. I felt shards in the soles of my feet when I tried to balance myself.

Minutes later I heard Mrs Hudson crying.

* * *

 

“You’re high priority, so the results should be back in an hour or so. If you’d like to get something to eat, the canteen is-”

“Bottom floor, left on the second corridor and opposite the bathrooms. I paid attention.”

“...Quite right.”

Idiot doctors. There was no chance that the scans would come up with anything new this time, all the other tests had shown absolutely nothing except the fact that my brain  activity was above average. Yet Mycroft- _bloody Mycroft_ \- insisted. _“They’ll get it this time, brother mine,”_ he’d stated confidently. _“We have the best doctors in England on the case. Once they find the problem, it will be fairly easily mended, I’m sure. It’s not as if you can’t form new memories, so it stands to reason that blah_ _blah, blah blah blah blah,_ _blah. Blah blah. Blahlock._ _Sherlock! Are you even listening?”_

_“_ _...No.”_

_“Hmm…”_   Why is it he had looked so impressed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was a bit short...  
> You may have noticed that we have cover art and a playlist! In case you didn't see it at the end of chapter 1, here it is again: http://8tracks.com/square-orange/forgotten-the-real-thing


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